The Notebook
by willgirl
Summary: She opens the cover and smoothes back the pages, each blank line a possibility, an idea.' SECOND CHAPTER ADDED!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Okay here's a little oneshot. It's for Niah and for Ana and for everyone at The Mighty Pen on the Boneyard who helps me to be a better writer. Our talk of notebooks the other day inspired me to write this. God, I love writing!**

* * *

She opens the cover and smoothes back the pages, each blank line a possibility, an idea. She uncaps her fountain pen and revels in the moment when the ink touches the page, when her deepest fears and strongest feelings are revealed. It is silent except for the slight scratch of her pen as it moves over the paper, filling up line after line. 

This is not her novel. That she writes directly on her computer, with a plethora of post it notes surrounding her, full of plot points and character ideas. This is for her and her alone.

She smiles as a slight breeze ruffles her hair and caresses her face. She shuts her eyes for a moment and lets it move through her, like a lover touching her softly, kissing her eyelids. Opening her eyes, she looks out at the scenery in front of her. The sun setting shines off the buildings and the remnants of the recently fallen rain still linger in the air. It smells fresh and she darts her tongue out to taste it, licking her lips.

She picks up her tea and runs her thumb along the handle as she takes a sip and sighs in delight. Turning her attention back to her notebook, she does not read over what she's written but instead continues to pour her thoughts out on paper.

She is sure others would laugh at her if they knew she spent hours in the store looking for the right notebook. Each time it was different, once it was a plain black moleskin notebook, the other a bright blue with flowers. She keeps them in a box under her bed, hidden from anyone who ever entered her bedroom.

Her current notebook is striped, a variety of colours. It's fairly whimsical, so unlike her, and yet when she saw it in the store she immediately gravitated towards it. She picked out a matching polka dotted pen as if the bright colours would push away the darkness of her writing.

Guarded in her work life, here, on her balcony, a crisp notebook in front of her, is where she reveals her feelings, allows them to overtake her.

She writes about everything; her time in foster care, every case that hurt her and Booth. Of course Booth. Here, in these notebooks, her feelings are laid bare, every touch, every look dissected.

Here in these notebooks she details the pain of watching her father leave once again, the fear she felt about almost being killed in Guatemala, the pain of the infant remains on her table.

It begins to grow dark but she doesn't leave, only moving slightly to light the candles on the table in front of her. She faintly hears her cellphone ringing but ignores it.

She needs this, this time to write. It will make her whole again, allow her to continue with her day to day activities where she puts on a cold face and bravely assesses the skeleton in front of her.

She doesn't write everyday, maybe not even every week. Only when she needs it, when the ache pressing against her chest becomes too much for her to bear.

And as she writes, the tears slip down her cheeks one by one, blotting the ink on the pages. And yet she continues, knowing that until she gets it out, she won't be able to face the next day.

Finally she caps her pen and brushes her tears away with her hands. She looks down at the notebook for a moment and then closes it. She never looks at what she's written, and even now, she can barely remember what she put on paper a few minutes before, as if its become expunged from her forever.

Grabbing her tea and her notebook, she heads inside to her bedroom. She puts the tea on her bedside table and then sits on the floor, reaching under the bed. She pulls out a long box and opens it.

There, tucked inside, are sixteen years worth of notebooks, her life as it were, on the written page. She tucks her notebook inside, her finger softly tracing the spiralled edge. She puts the lid on and pushes it under the bed where its hidden from the world, from her friends, from Booth.

And although she just spent the last few hours being what most would consider unproductive, she doesn't care.

Because when she writes, she feels whole.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Okay, so I sat down to write the next chapter of Accommodations and this came out. I wasn't planning on continuing but you have to follow the muse. This chapter is for Ana, who basically convinced me that this didn't suck. Tissue warning in effect, its a little sad.**

He never questioned her, not once. She knew he must be curious, wondered what could possibly be contained in those notebooks. But he never asked. And this was one of the reasons she loved him.

Their whole courtship is laid bare in the notebooks. Their first kiss, first date, their anniversaries and all the regular moments in between.

When she writes of him, she smiles. He loves her, she can feel it with every fibre in her body. She shivers now as she thinks about him; his lips on hers, his arms holding her close.

She is out on the balcony again, while he and Parker watch a movie inside. Normally she would join him, but tonight she felt the need to be out here, the soft wind blowing in her hair.

Booth had suggested they move once and she adamantly refused. This was her place and she couldn't give it up.

What if she moved and the words didn't come? It was a foolish belief but one she clung to fervently. Seeing the look in her eyes, he changed his mind and they stayed in the apartment.

He never showed a desire to open the box under their bed either, despite having seen it several times while trying to retrieve an item that had fallen or been brushed aside.

Her pen moves quickly as she writes out the story of her life, a jumbled biography of sorts. She hears Parker laugh inside and smiles, thinking of how much he is like his father.

She sets down her pen and takes a sip of her tea. Picking up the lighter and relighting one of the candles, she gazes at the soft flicker. She moves her hand over the flame quickly, the heat warming her fingers slightly.

The candles she has placed around her have lit her darkened table, but even then she can barely make out what she is writing. Not that it matters, she doesn't read it anyway.

She turned her gaze out to the skyline. It was beautiful, tranquil even, despite the sounds of cars and people below. Getting up, she leaned against the railing, her hands warming the coldness of the bar.

She knew that in the city there were crimes taking place, horrors inflicted on others. She saw it everyday in her job, humanity at its worst. And yet when she was out here, seeing the stars appear one by one in the sky, she felt content.

Booth would say that her faith was being restored. She would scoff and argue, but deep down she knew he was right. Her faith was renewed, not in God, but rather in life, in the people that lived it day by day around her. It emboldened her, prepared her for the next day of struggle.

She pulled her sweatshirt close and shivered. Logic said she should go in, as the temperature was dropping rapidly, but she wasn't done yet.

Turning back to the table, she sat down and picked up the pen, once more allowing the soft scratching to lull her into contentment.

And as she wrote, she smiled because she knew, despite the hardships in her life, and the atrocities she witnessed, life was good.

She was happy.

She was loved.

* * *

He sat there in the white plastic chair, barely moving a muscle, his mouth in a tight, thin line. All around him, people cried. On his left was Angela, inconsolable at the loss of her friend. To his right, Parker, now grownup, crying for his beloved Dr. Bones.

But he didn't shed a tear, refused to look at the picture of her sitting on the easel next to the casket.

When the doctors first told them, neither had believed it but soon the realities sunk in. She fought of course, but in the end it had been too much, even for her. He didn't cry when it happened, hadn't cried at all actually. He just felt dead inside.

He wished for this part to be over, so he could go home and ignore the looks of pity on everyone's faces.

When it came time for people to speak, he refused, instead choosing to listen to everyone else share their Temperance Brennan stories.

A drop on his hand caused him to look down and at first he thought it was a tear. Instead it was the rain, finally spilling after threatening to all day. Another drop came and then another and he was reminded of when they were caught in the rain during a walk in the park. She had looked so beautiful, hair soaked and makeup running that he had kissed her impulsively.

Soon the service was over and everyone made their way to Hodgins for the wake. Getting into his car, he automatically looked over at the passenger seat, expecting her to be there, arguing with him about driving or smiling at him softly.

He made his way to their apartment instead and, once inside, was immediately drawn to their bedroom. Sitting on the floor, he reached under the bed and pulled out the long box. Lifting the lid, he saw dozens upon dozens of notebooks, all different sizes and colours.

Reaching for one, he opened it and let out a breath at the sight of her scripted handwriting. Running a hand over it smoothly, he began to read.

And as he read about her life in foster care, her early career, and the blossoming of their relationship, he began to cry, his wet tears mixed with her dry ones on the page.

He sat there for hours, through the entire night, and read. Finally, he picked up the last notebook and stood. He made his way out to her balcony, where he had never tread before, and sitting in her chair he flipped the pages, entranced by her writing.

And as the sun came up, he read her final entry, a message to him, and brushing away his tears, he smiled.

He felt whole.


End file.
